


Staffs and Rifles

by hillbillied



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Holocaust mention/references, M/M, Nightmares, POV Jewish Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:48:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4654716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillbillied/pseuds/hillbillied
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"There are times when we all feel lost or alone, adrift and forsaken, unable to reach those next to us, or be reached by them. And there are days and nights when existence seems to lack all purpose, and our lives seem brief sparks in an indifferent cosmos. Fear and loneliness enter the soul. None of us is immune from anxiety or doubt, none escapes times when all seems dark and senseless."</i>
</p>
<p>We all have nightmares. This one is Liebgott's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staffs and Rifles

**Author's Note:**

> Summary is a direct quote from the siddur I have by my bedside, given to me by one of the rabanim at my local shul. ( _Siddur Lev Chadash_ , to be specific, since we're a Liberal denomination.) 
> 
> Less wordy translation: The summary is an extract from my Jewish Prayer book that a rabbi from my synagogue gave me. I opened a page at random, and landed on chapter 34: loneliness.
> 
> Basically I watched The Prince of Egypt, and thought about some things. This is the somber result.

There's more voices here than he can understand.

Mashed and _twisted_ and strung together in a roaring mass, unable to differentiate between friend and foe. Between those he would call _family_ , and those he would gladly tear the throats out of.

_Drums_ crash in the distance. Everything is a shade darker than it should be, than he remembers. There is no source of light here, plunged so deep under the storm.

Only slivers of gold, warm metal reflecting flames that aren't quite there, illuminate his form. He can see his hands; they clutch something. A bolt comes into few, under his pale, rigid fingers. His rifle.

_Pick up your silly twig, boy._

It's a hiss in his ear, and he turns, a sharp gesture of fear. Yet, when he stares into the darkness by his side, there is nothing there. Only empty space and _distant_ , _glittering_ gold.

Artefacts of times long past. Or maybe, times not yet forgotten.

A menorah rests against a pharaoh's crown. White parachutes cover strange heaps of objects. Tiny specs of metal, that - under his horrified gaze - he sees are fillings, scatter the cloudless dark. Thunder rolls and he spins again, _yet again_ ; nothing is there.

He is dreaming, he thinks. But then he looks down, and there is his rifle. Gripped like it could lift him from this bottomless sea. The last hope of a drowning man.

And he _is_ drowning, he knows. One look down at his chest and he can see it - how much of a struggle it is to draw in this stale air. His open uniform reveals his dirty shirt, rising and falling with such effort. High-pitched chimes echoing in the black, coming from his dog tags knocking against his ribs.

_Pick up your silly twig, boy!_

It's louder and it has him fumbling with the rifle, shaking pants ripping through the dark as he scrambles to load the gun. No ammo clips find him; the magazine is empty. Panicked hands claw across his uniform, his belts, his webbing - nothing.

He has no bullets.

_It's your own grave you'll dig, boy!_

There it is; floating in the liquid-dark. Spinning slowly, _revolving_ , tumbling at a painful pace towards him. Impatient, _desperate_ , he reaches for it.

_Why must you call down another blow_

Wind, ripping at his hair. And yet, the single bullet remains just out of his reach.

A boom, thunder rolling. Deafening, it must be in his ears alone. His fingers brush cold metal, the casing slipping over his skin.

The shell presses into his palm, squashed in his grasp for but a second. Then his arm is withdrawing, his eyes ablaze. A _click_ , a snap, the sound of a bolt sliding back and forth beneath his fingers. Sweat falling from his forehead, bursting into sparks in the dark, leaving droplets on the dull metal of his rifle.

_Pick up your silly twig, **boy** -!_

The voices grow louder; it is none of his concern. As long as he has the strength to lift his weapon, to jar the stock against his shoulder - he is content. So heavy, the rifle is so heavy - He can't feel his fingers, can only guess he has one on the trigger.

He doesn't know at what he aims. Everything is _aflame_ , the gold melting away and crashing like waves against his form. Still, he holds his ground, even as the molten metal rides up against his waist in a storm of shimmering water.

The arching candles melt away, the pharaoh's crowns turn black as they crumble to ash. The sea threatening consume him begins to boil, bubble, simmering as it's golden sheen becomes one of a dirty red. The silken sheets of parachutes are swept into the fray, and it sickens him to see them swirl into shapes on the blood's surface.

The fabric twists into white circles, and he catches glimpses of the swastikas on their surfaces before they disappear beneath the waves.

Thunder claps and he lets out a cry as he almost topples. It is _hopeless_. He cannot see.

Without sight, in only darkness, what can he shoot at?

_Send my sword_ , a screaming voice whistles past his ear.

It is not like the others. It is _desperate_ , it is as scared as he is. It pushes past the roaring clamours that call down this sea of gold and gore. It is _afraid;_ it is _determined_.

It is his own.

His rifle is no longer heavy as he adjusts it in his grip. Hands that _are_ his own, but come from another body, guide his aim. Up, _up_ , past the thrashing waves and into the cloudless dark. A finger covers his on the trigger. He still cannot see, can feel the waves about to consume him. Drag him into the depths and _drown him_ in their rage.

But he is not afraid; he trusts his guide. He trusts _himself_.

He will not miss.

The command to fire is not a command at all. It is his own voice, it is a _prayer_.

_B'ezrat Hashem._

The rifle jerks as he squeezes the trigger. The gunshot explodes in light as the final wave crashes over his head. The darkness shatters.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 Liebgott sits upright in his bed. No darkness greets him, no molten gold or rivers of blood. Only a dull room, lit by moonlight. A small bedroom, with a high ceiling and barely enough room for the bed he rests upon.

He had been dreaming, he realises.

But all he wakes to is _another_ _nightmare_.

He recognises the bedroom, the house. It is in Germany, the town of Bergkirchen. His company is resting here, he remembers, waiting for orders to continue further into their enemy's homeland.

And it was yesterday that they discovered the camp.

A body stirs beside Joe, making him jolt and turn upon the man beside him with a vengeance. He is met with a pair of brilliant eyes, not hindered by sleep but rather _wide awake_ , as if they have been for many minutes.

" _Joe_?"

Liebgott chooses not to answer, focusing on slowing the rapid rise and fall of his chest. Beads of sweat catch on the bones of his collar, continue to run across his forehead.

The man beside him props himself up on his elbow, concern digging itself into his voice. "Joe?"

"Go back t'sleep, Web." Joe decides, falling back against the dirty pillows himself. The soldier beside him hesitates, before carefully doing the same.

Liebgott is acutely aware that Webster's gaze is still on him, watching from across the bed they share. _Not enough rooms, have to double up_ , he'd been told. He only pretended to complain.

The man beside him can be difficult at the best of times, but Joe is grateful for his silence in that moment. He doesn't want to talk about it. He doesn't want a debate and he doesn't want a discussion. He doesn't want to rant, to fight and seethe and let out his tethered feelings.

He is too tired for that.

He is exhausted and they both know it. The life has been sucked out of him in a way neither of them could have imagined, and Joe fears it may be the death of him.

Webster's hand grips his, brushing his fingers gently first to ask for permission. Lieb doesn't even _begrudgingly_ accept, again; too tired for pretences. He simply grabs the man's hand and holds on tight, comforted by the soft breathing at his ear and warmth against his side.

He awoke from his nightmare and was too alarmed to see the difference - between _here_ and the world he had escaped.

The real world is dark, he knows. Dark, and cruel. But unlike his nightmare, where there was only endless black and angry storms, the real world has light.

The real world has hope.


End file.
